hc svnt leones
by pasdecoeur
Summary: As of that Hallowe'en in 1994, Harry Potter had been missing for precisely thirteen years.
1. Chapter 1

_But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him._

 _The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment._

 _Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out -_

 _"Harry Potter."_

* * *

There was only one problem with that, of course.

Harry Potter didn't attend Hogwarts.  
Harry Potter didn't attend any wizarding school at all.

In fact, as of that Halloween evening, Harry Potter had been missing for exactly thirteen years.

* * *

Probably, this should've been the moment that something... momentous happened. Thunder should've boomed, lightning cracked from the heavens, the sky rent apart, and Harry Potter himself appeared halfway down the Ravenclaw table in a flash of purple smoke, and one foot in the gravy boat.

What instead occurred was a lot more boring - a suspended moment of absolute, pervasive silence while everyone waited, possibly, for Peeves to pop out from behind the Headmaster and call 'Surprise!' before blowing a raspberry in Snape's ear and cackling away - and then the Great Hall burst into excited, barely controlled whispers.

" _Merlin's third n-_ " Hermione heard Neville breathe, and elbowed him in the gut out of sheer reflex, her eyes trained on Dumbledore, the way he'd gone pale, bloodless, as still as a statue. It was Professor McGonagall who stepped forth to the podium after a watchful pause. Her wand swept down in a short, forceful arc, producing a near-concussive shockwave of sound, making the student bodies of all three schools shut up and settle down.

"Prefects," she commanded, wandtip to her throat to amplify her voice, "lead the students to their dormitories in an orderly fashion. Students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, please make your way to your allocated accommodations. That is all. Good evening."

* * *

"You know what this means, don't you?" Weasley asked, ruddy eyebrow raised, meeting everyone else's eye. The fourth-years had managed to snag the best seats in the common room, right next to the fireplace, and they were all there, Lavender and Parvati curled up on the loveseat, Dean sketching on the low table right by the fire, Seamus sprawled by his side, Hermione curled in the big armchair, Neville perched lightly on an arm beside her.

Hermione watched them all huddle forward, even _Neville_ , and barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Ron had such a _thing_ for being the center of attention, honestly, it was a bit embarrassing.

He dropped his voice lower, shoving up the sleeves of his robes in a well-worn nervous gesture. The scars from his encounter with the basilisk gleamed on his forearms, circles of shiny, silvered scars, the size of silver dollar pancakes. "It means Harry Potter's still alive."

This time, she did roll her eyes.

"Oh please," she snapped, "he's been gone _thirteen_ years! You'd think, if he was alive, he'd have showed up by now, don't you? What's he so scared of?"

Ron bristled, colour rising splotchy across his nose, making his hair the precise shade of Chudley orange. Lavender cut in, with a quelling hand on Ron's forearm, saying, "Papa says that maybe he didn't really survive Voldemort, you know? Maybe he's, like, crippled or gone stupid or whatever." She tilted her nose up, which only improved her resemblance to an extremely snotty pug, and added, "It's better for the image, you know, if he's just _gone_. More... mystique."

"That's lovely," Hermione replied. "Really, a brilliant theory. Or maybe, Lavender, he's just _dead._ People don't survive the _Killing_ Curse. Hence the name."

Parvati and Lavender shared a Look, before Parvati said, in that annoying, shivery, sage little voice Hermione was _positive_ she'd borrowed from Trelawney, "If he was dead, Hermione, where was the body? Hmm?" Her eyes had acquired that glazed, distant quality that Hermione took to mean Parvati was employing her "Inner Eye" or whatever new pseudo-occlumency rubbish Trelawney'd been cooking up while she was high off sherry fumes.

Hermione laughed humorlessly. "Merlin... You are aware that nearly a _quarter_ of the Potters' house was vaporized? In the explosion? They only ever foundJames Potter's body."

Parvati blinked, and then hastily looked away, with a mumbled, "Yes, well."

"You lot aren't seeing it," Dean said quietly. His quill moved in short, deft strokes across the parchment, and his eyes never moved away from the sketch. "If the reason you think Harry Potter might still be alive is because they never found a corpse... You have to consider this: they never found You-Know-Who's body either."

"Mate..." Seamus said, soft as a feather, but the words had done their trick. All the fourth-years were quiet as mice, staring into the crackling flames, the strange shape of fear coiling in their hearts.

"The Dark Lord isn't alive," Hermione said stubbornly, into that fragile silence, and Ron snorted.

"Yeah?" he scoffed. "How do _you_ know?"

Hermione glared, and Ron willingly reciprocated. "Oh, I'm just guessing, _Ronald_ ," she snarled, sotto voce. "Maybe because there isn't a _war_ outside? Maybe because Muggleborns like me aren't being strung up by our _toes_ and _tortured_ in Hogsmeade square?"

Neville placed his heavy hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and Hermione paused, and noticed the younger kids all around them had gone quiet too, watching her rant with huge, scared eyes, making her feel like the worst sort of monster. She forced herself to close her eyes and _breathe_.

"You weren't there, Granger," Ron finally said. "You weren't there, this summer, at the World Cup. They... They _hurt_ those muggles. Laughed when they screamed. And then the Dark Mark? In the open like that?" He shook his head, his gaze far away, flames flickering in those ice blue eyes. "There's no war on now, you're right.

From Dean Thomas' parchment, a Basilisk hissed at them, it's yellow eyes filled with a hungry rage, it's fangs dripping with crimson blood.

"Not yet."

* * *

November came to Scotland with a wintry vengeance, turning the air chill and the skies a steely gray, forcing Hogwarts' population indoors against the malevolent weather.

And indoors, all anyone could ever talk about was Harry _sodding_ Potter, as if he'd suddenly usurped the position for the center of the universe. Hermione had heard more nuanced discussion about the nature of 'magically binding contracts' and their enforcement in the past month than she would've _dreamed_ possible - all anyone could talk about was if _he_ was going to turn up for the First Task.

All Hermione wanted to do was run far, far away.

Thank Merlin for the library.

"Um... Is this one taken?"

Cedric Diggory, sixth year, Hufflepuff Prefect, Hogwarts champion, all-round good guy, and possibly the most extraordinarily handsome boy in school, looked up to see Hermione Granger, her leather-gloved hand resting on the back of a chair opposite his. The library was well packed today; Viktor Krum had taken one table, and his twittering horde had taken up _six_ more.

Cedric had managed to ditch his own fanbase, praise Morgana - none of them had figured out quite how much time he spent in the library. It would be a real shame, Cedric thought, if they were to figure it out today.

But Hermione didn't looked prettied up, or nervous; her hair had been hastily braided down her back, corkscrew curls escaping the 'do, and she was flushed, sweaty and looked a little... cranky. Cedric grinned.

"All yours," he said, gesturing grandly at the empty seat, and Hermione took it with a perfunctory smile, thumping her bookbag down and pulling out her Runes textbooks.

Cedric returned to his Herbology essay in turn, and for a time, they worked in peaceable silence.

...right up until a high-pitched, pig-like squeal came from the table on the other side of the stacks, making Hermione twitch violently, her quill snapping in her hand. The nib skidded across the parchment to leave a long, ugly streak of blue ink across the creamy paper.

"For the love of _Merlin!_ " Hermione hissed with uncharacteristic rage, turning in her seat to glare at the long rows of books, as if she could see the offending witch right through the paper and wood.

Cedric smirked, but he _was_ a Hufflepuff, so instead of the wiseass remark she might've gotten from a Gryffindor or even a 'Claw, he waved his wand over her essay and siphoned away the spilled ink.

"Oh," Hermione said, turning back to see him stowing his wand away once more. Colour rose to her cheeks, in high spots of pink. "I... Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He pointed his wand at the broken quill. " _Reparo._ "

She smiled, a little hesitant. Diggory was, after all, older and taller and terribly good-looking, and a Champion to boot. "It must get exhausting, mustn't it?" she said softly. "Dodging this crowd?"

Cedric's eyes widened, before he- _blushed._ Lud, he really was a 'Puff. Every Gryffindor she knew would've had the time of their lives with a proper _fanbase,_ and here he was, getting all coy about it.

Well, nearly every Gryffindor.

Neville would've hated it.

But then, Nev had never been like the rest of them.

"I don't mind," Diggory said, just as soft, without meeting her eyes. Hermione chuckled.

"Right, my mistake. You're hiding in the library from the giant squid, of course. How _did_ I get that confused?"

He snorted, peeking up at from beneath his dark lashes like a guilty little kid. "You should try Scrivenshaft's for quills," he said instead. "They don't break so easy."

It was Hermione's turn to smile then. She tugged open the buttons at the wrist, and then loosened each finger of the black, leather glove she wore on her right hand. "It _is_ from Scrivenshaft," she said. "But even they don't make quills for someone like... me."

And she pulled off her glove, to reveal a hand that was entirely formed of cold, gleaming steel.

She giggled a little at the dumbstruck expression on his face, flexing the cold, metal fingers until they caught the light and refracted it, making tiny fractals dance across her faux-skin, and Cedric mock-scowled at her, making her laugh harder, until he was grinning too.

"That's kind of amazing," he said, after their laughter had subsided. "Your hand, I mean."

Hermione ducked her head, unused to the compliment. "Thanks. Professor Dumbledore's work. It was after the, you know..."

"The troll incident?" Cedric asked quietly, and Hermione nodded. His only response was a sharp, rattling exhale, and she snapped her gaze up to meet his troubled eyes. "I heard it was a close shave," he said.

"It was. But I survived." Her tone became brisk, pragmatic. "Lost my hand, my forearm, most of my right leg-"

"Your _leg_ too?!" Cedric interrupted.

"It was a _troll_ ," Hermione said patiently, as if she was speaking to someone particularly stupid, and he settled down once again, looking shaken this time.

"Merlin..." he mumbled, and Hermione finally noticed how pale he'd gone. "That's... that's gonna keep me up at night, that is."

And then she realized- People _died_ in the Triwizard Tournament.

 _Students_ died.

And here she was, dumping her near-death horror story in his lap- Damn, she'd been such an idiot! "Cedric," she whispered, grabbing his hand impulsively. "Nothing's going to happen to you, alright? You're smart, you're quick, you're going to have your wand, you're going to be _prepared_. You will survive this. You _will_."

Cedric gaped at her. "I'm not worried about _me!_ " he hissed indignantly. "You were _eleven!_ You shouldn't've had to face down a _troll,_ for Merlin's sake!"

"Oh," Hermione whispered, feeling stupid, a surge of unsteady warmth swelling up in her like a tidal wave. "Well I was. And I did."

"And it's not just you!" Cedric barreled on. "Quirell's suicide, remember that? Right after you got hurt. Nobody knows why. The year after that - all those Petrifications! And the talk about the Chamber... And Ginny Weasley being sent to St. Mungo's for six months at the end of term-"

"You _heard_ about that?!" Hermione asked incredulously, and he waved it off.

"My aunt works in the Billings department. That's not the point, Hermione. I _know_ Ronald - he's in your year?" Hermione nodded. "He has scars now. Those big, silver ones on his arms. Nobody knows why. Year after that, Sirius Black escapes Azkaban, comes straight here. Nobody knows why. The best DADA professor we've had in a decade? Turns out to be a goddamn werewolf! And now this!"

The whole time, his voice had stayed in a low, furious whisper. Clearly, this was an oft-visited subject. "People have _died_ for that sodding Cup. And if the Goblet really does create magically binding contracts, and Potter is really alive, then a fourteen year old _kid_ is going to forced into the most dangerous competitions in the _history_ of magical education." There was a furious glimmer in his eyes when he looked at Hermione. "And _nobody_ knows why."

* * *

 **a/n:** Accidentally deleted the original. My apologies.  
Updates weekly-ish, crossposted on ao3. Remember to follow if you want story updates, favourite and leave a review!


	2. Chapter 2

_**a/n:** Oh, by the way, 'HC SVNT LEONES' was a phrase used by mapmakers in the Middle Ages, to specify parts of the world that had not yet been explored and may present unknown dangers. It's Old Latin for 'Here Be Lions'; the Church Latin version of it would be hic sunt leones, or hic erit leones. I'm always confusing the correct verb there. A little later, however, cartographers started using HC SVNT DRACONES, which, you might've guessed, translates to 'Here Be Dragons,' used for much the same purpose. Neither of the two were actually particularly common - very few instances of either phrase have been discovered, but the phrases themselves have become popular in modern fantasy canon._

 _Okay, so. That's that history lesson done. Onto the chapter, brought to you courtesy of my incomparable beta, dylanpidge, who fixed this mess of a chapter like a pro. (Virtual) drinks on me, bud._

* * *

"So?" Lavender Brown was asking a skinny third-year, with an expression of hungry fanaticism, "did you really see him?"

The kid had begun to slowly back away.

Hermione exchanged a wary glance with Neville. Both of them took seats on either side of Lavender.

"Hey, Brown?" Neville said, pitching his voice low and crooning, and Hermione recognized it for the way he spoke to the Venomous Tentactula in Greenhouse Number Five, when he helped Professor Sprout prune on Sundays. "Go easy, yeah? I think you've terrified the kid enough for one day."

Lavender shot him a murderous look, before turning back to little Colin Creevey. "You don't understand," she hissed. "Do you know who he met today? Tell 'em, sprog."

Colin swallowed, eyes wide and frozen like a deer caught in the headlights. "I- I- I didn't-" He shook his head. "I don't-"

Lavender sighed contemptuously. "Oh for Merlin's sake," she snapped, and then turned to Neville. "He met Harry Potter."

Silence descended over them like a ripple in a pond. Hermione heard someone whisper, _'Wait, did she say Harry Potter?!'_ before nearly everyone abandoned their seats to gather around Lavender and Colin.

Hermione heard Colin make a very soft, very pathetic little _'meep!'_ before blushing a violent shade of red.

Well, this was going to be tricky.

"Colin," Hermione finally said, "Look at me."

He did. Colin was a tiny thing, mousy-haired and spindly-limbed. He looked like a strong gust of wind would knock him right over. Hermione stomped down the urge to hug him, and then hex Lavender's stupid hair off her stupid, _stupid_ head. People got funny about things like that.

"You aren't getting out of this one, hm?" She tried for a commiserating grin, and it worked, because Colin smiled back. It was wan and small, sure, but most things would be an improvement over trembling limbs.

"How about you just tell me what happened? Like it's just you and me? I promise I won't interrupt." She scanned the crowd, eyes narrowed, and idly fingered her wand. The silver-blue metal of her hand gleamed wickedly in the firelight, perfectly capable of both crushing bone and wielding a wand. "I promise _no one_ will interrupt."

She heard someone gulp.  
She didn't smile.

"There's this ceremony," Colin began hesitantly. "It's called the Weighing of the Wands. I'm not... sure what it's about, I only read up on it afterwards, but I think it's mostly to just... check if everyone's wands are alright?" He looked to Hermione, and she nodded encouragingly. He'd actually gotten that right. Clever kid.

He straightened up, gathering momentum.

"So, they needed to round up the champions, and me - and Rick," he thumbed over to his friend, a fair-haired brown-eyed boy, his grin sharp and foxlike, "volunteered for the job." Hermione frowned at the other boy. No one named Rick had been sorted into Gryffindor in her second year, she was sure of it.

Colin noticed her staring, and added, hurriedly, "He's one of the new ones, Hermione. Just joined last week."

" _'One of the-'_?" Ron repeated, sounding just as surprised as Hermione felt, before he chanced a look at her and piped down immediately.

Colin nodded. "There's been just one other, this year. A fifth-year in Hufflepuff, um, something Grimes? I think?"

" _Ooooh,_ no, you mean Garmer," Parvati murmured dreamily. "He's _gorgeous_."

Colin rolled his eyes, bless his soul, and muttered, "Right well, where was I?"

"You and Rick-" Rick waved obligingly to the crowd, and Katie and the Chasers tittered, making him flush and sit back down "-volunteered to get the champions."

"Yeah, so I went to get Diggory. Rick had to go up to the Ravenclaw dorms to call Fleur. They sent a seventh-year to call Krum because, well, _Durmstrang_."

An agreeing murmur went through the room. The Europeans weren't exactly a pleasant bunch.

"He was in Arithmancy, so I go down to Vector's classroom. That isn't too far from where they were doing the ceremony. We make it back sooner than I thought we would've, right, and we get to the door the same time as Dumbledore puts up this huge purple curtain right down the middle of the room, Ollivander on one side, all the reporters on the other.

"And then he says, real quiet-like, _'If you are here, please step forward.'_ I thought he meant us, you know, that we'd got caught. I start to step through the door, but Diggory grabs the back of my robe and then this... person, I guess, just appears. Out of nowhere. He's got this creepy black robe on, the hood's up, and he just _drifts_ forward. Scared the piss out of me. He looked like, you know the Ringwraiths, Hermione?" She nodded. "Like that," he whispered. "Not Dementor-scary, you know, not evil... Just. _Cold._ Huge."

"Powerful," Neville said softly, and Colin nodded hard, curls flopping over his forehead with the motion.

"I didn't move. I _couldn't_. There was this huge weight against my chest, just... Pushing. Holding me down. So I stay where I am, in front of Diggory, right at the door. I watch him walk over to Ollivander, and the old man just says, 'Hello Mr. Potter,' calm as you like. 'Your wand please.'

"And Potter hands over a giant bloody walking stick."

"What?"

"A stick! A cane! I'm not kidding! Four? Maybe five feet high."

Lavender sniffed. "Cripple," she pronounced. "I said so."

"Don't be daft, Lav," Parvati interrupted, before Hermione could say anything. All traces of the flighty teenage girl were wiped from her; at that moment, Parvati looked remarkably like her twin - level-headed, focused and breathtakingly clever. "Was it carved, Colin? The stick?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah it was. Runes, looked like. I couldn't tell the language, though. I didn't..." He looked down, embarrassed. "I don't know that stuff."

"That's alright, Colin," Hermione soothed softly. "That material's not third-year level."

Colin nodded, and flashed her a grateful smile, before turning to Parvati. "Does that matter? The runework? I thought it was just... decorative."

She snorted. "Right, because he'd just give Ollivander a giant stick instead of his wand and no one would kick up a fuss. _Think,_ Colin," she scolded. She turned to the rest of the crowd. "My father says they used to use them in the Highlands, and then the old Romans took it up in a big way. It got exported around a lot in the 1600s. It's still popular in Central America, parts of Abyssinia, South-East Asia, wherever the Portuguese influence was strong."

"Okay," Lavender cut in irritably, "but what _is_ it?"

"A staff. A wizard's staff. Merlin had one." Parvati grinned. "Looks like Harry Potter's gone old-school."

* * *

Weeks passed.

The castle hummed with activity, and a restrained, taut tension. Without the release of regular Quidditch matches and the looming Triwizard Tournament, violence erupted in small, nasty ways — inter-House pranks pushed a little too far, mock duels amongst the seniors ending in dangerous injuries, and interactions with the rival schools that bore faint, simmering undercurrents of violence.

For Hermione, there was a new, and surprisingly welcome, change to her library routine.

They had made a habit of sitting together, her and Diggory. It wasn't so much a matter of matching schedules and choosing times - but if he ever snagged a table at the library, he saved a seat for her, greeting her with a nod and a friendly smile if she arrived, before going back to his own work.

They talked as often as they didn't; Diggory had the unenviable task of juggling a sixth-year courseload along with prepping for the Tournament, and they rarely had time for a chat. But the silence was companionable rather than lonely, and Hermione found herself looking forward to it, even when Cho dropped by. The advantage of dating a Ravenclaw was that they, at least, respected the sanctity of a well-written essay.

Until one day, a week before the First Task, right around the time the furore around Colin's story had finally begun dying down, Hermione arrived at their usual table— and found her seat occupied. The lanky, Hufflepuff upperclassman in Hermione's spot looked up at her lazily, his dark hair a mess, his eyes a strange, arresting hazel, reminding of her of Crookshanks lazing in a patch of sunlight on a summer afternoon.

"Um."

Diggory looked up, smiled at Hermione and then shoved gently at his friend. "Alright, mate. Time for you to piss off," making the other boy roll his eyes, and sprawl back in his seat a little more.

"So," he said, eyes insolently traveling up and down her body before meeting her gaze, "you're Hermione," his vowels sort of tamped down, his consonants curling together in strange ways.

Her jaw clenched tighter. "And you're Garmer," she retorted.

He smirked. "Would you look at that, Ced," drawled the older boy, his eyes never leaving Hermione's, making her feel shivery and strangely exposed, "I'm _famous_."

Hermione scoffed. "Hardly. You're the only other new student in school. It's not hard to figure out."

"Ouch," he murmured, clasping a hand to his chest, as he rose gracefully from the seat. "How you wound me, witch."

She took the vacated seat, casting her eyes heavenward for a brief second, before pulling out a roll of parchment and her Transfiguration reference books. Awareness prickled along the back of her neck, making the fine hairs stand on end, and Hermione looked up from her books to see Garmer still standing there, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against a bookshelf and... staring.

"What?" she asked, brusque and clipped. There was something in the way he looked at her that made her want to quail, to shrink and hide away. She _hated_ the feeling.

But Garmer said nothing, watching for a long moment, before he asked, "Granger... Tell me, what's Golpalott's Third Law?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "That's... _really_ advanced. I'm a fourth year."

Stop being mean, she didn't say. Weren't 'Puffs supposed to be _nice?_

Garmer's expression stayed strangely calm. "Don't know it, then?"

Her eyes hardened. "I _do_ , as a matter of fact," she ground out coldly.

"What is it?"

She breathed in, and shut her eyes, opening up the Advanced Potion-Making textbook in her mind she'd scanned last week on a whim. The pages remained blurred, unreadable except for the bits that had caught her interest. "It's... about antidotes, isn't it?" She didn't open her eyes to gauge Garmer's expression. "Blended potions, and their antidotes... Greater than the sum of its parts? That's it. So the antidote to a blended potion would be... You'd need the antidote to each component and then... Something extra?"

She peeked one eye open. Garmer was about as animated as a rock.

Hermione sighed. "Well? Did I get that right?"

"Perfect." But it was Cedric who said it, and Hermione grinned, turning to him.

"Thanks," she sang airily, and Cedric acknowledged it with a nod, staring at her like he'd hit his head on something. "Are you alright?"

Cedric blinked. "Yeah," he mumbled. "M'fine."

Unconvinced, Hermione nodded.

"Miss Granger," came that flat, questioning tone again, and Hermione nearly hissed at him. "If I fed a draught of ashwinder milk infused with wormwood to a six-month-old Firecrab, what would I get?"

"A _prison_ sentence," Hermione snapped. "Breeding Neiriti Manticores is highly illegal." She drummed her fingers on her textbook. "What is this, some kind of quiz? I have work to do!"

"Alluvielle is mined where?"

"Trick questions," she spat. "Lovely. It isn't mined - iron ore tempered under dragonfire is called alluvielle. The camps in Romania are the world's largest supplier."

"The fourth most toxic poison," Garmer said, his voice carrying perfectly despite how quietly he spoke, "according the Worldwide Registry of Class IV Substances and-"

"Erumpent's tears, when correctly distilled and vaporized, have been used in the past as a nerve gas with six times the potency of sarin."

"One more. The most effective way to kill a-"

"Avada Kedavra."

Garmer went deadly quiet.

Hermione went on. "It doesn't matter what the rest of your question was. The most effective way to kill anything is the Killing Curse." She almost smiled, before she added the last line. "Hence the name."

"How do you _know_ all that?!" came the outburst from her right.

Hermione turned to Cedric. "What do you mean, 'how'? I read, is all."

Cedric did a very good impression of a goldfish for a few seconds before spluttering, "How **_much_** do you read?!"

She blushed, fiddling with her cuffs and looking away. "I don't know." She looked back up at him. "A lot?"

His jaw clicked shut, and a look of fierce determination swept across his face, making his shoulders seem impossibly broader. Lucky Cho. Lucky, lucky Cho. "You," he said, in a voice that brooked no dissent, "are going to help me survive this Tournament."

She stared back steadily. "Nonsense, Diggory," she said, sharp and businesslike, and for a brief second, his facade wavered. Hermione smiled, slow and deadly. "I'm going to help you _win_."

* * *

When Hermione looked back where Garmer had been, the aisle was empty, and he was gone as if he'd never been there.

And she thought, _'Oh,'_ her surprise choking her like a punch to the gut. _'Oh you clever, clever boy.'_

* * *

 _ **a/n:** Bit of a filler, I know. Next up: Prelude to The First Task.  
Remember to follow for story updates, and leave a review! _


	3. Chapter 3

_**a/n:** Not mine. Beta'd by the incomparable dylanpidge, who has been (unknowingly) recruited to handhold me through my inevitable nervous breakdown when I realize I don't actually know how to write good fic. _

_On a happier note, here's virtual cookies for my reviewers. I remain, as ever, a total slut for validation, so, thanks, guys._

* * *

 **III. A HARD RAIN**

* * *

There were four days left to the First Task.

Hermione staggered into the Gryffindor Common Room with three minutes to spare to curfew, tossing her bookbag to the side and practically melting into the couch by the fire, utterly exhausted.

Lavender sat down almost immediately on her right, a curious, glittering grin on her face. Parvati sat down on her left. Hermione stifled a sigh.

"So," Lavender began, faux-casual, examining her perfectly manicured nails. "You've been busy."

Hermione's answer was as brief as she could manage without actually being rude. She had lived with these girls for over three years—and they could be _vicious_. "Yes."

"With Cedric _Diggory_ ," Parvati added, stretching the name out like taffy.

Hermione exhaled, and scrubbed her eyes. "Yes."

"Doing...?" Lavender prodded shamelessly.

"Practicing."

"You're looking a little rumpled, Granger," Parvati said, light as a feather. "Practicing what, exactly?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the girl. " _Spells_. For the _Tournament_. For which I'm helping him _prepare_."

Parvati _hmm_ 'd. " _Spells..._ " she repeated, as if testing the word. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Lavender giggled.

"I hate you both," Hermione sighed, slumping down in her seat. "Where's Neville?"

Lavender pointed to one of the tiny windowed alcoves off the common room, half-hidden by an intricately carved mahogany screen. "He's been there all evening, reading. Missed dinner and everything." Lavender squinted at Hermione. "Hey! Didn't you miss dinner too?"

Hermione shrugged, and rose from her seat. "Ced wanted to get his Stunner perfect."

Lavender _oooooh_ 'd delightedly. "It's _'Ced'_ now, is it?" she crowed, and Hermione slapped a hand over her face, before making her way to Neville.

"Hey."

Neville looked up from his parchment. "Hey, 'Mione. What's up?"

"Stuff. Things. I don't know. We need to talk." She frowned at him, and then sat down on the armchair beside his, putting both of their backs to the rest of the Gryffindor common room. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He sighed, and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "No. Not really."

"Did something happen? Nev? Is everything okay?"

Neville shrugged. "It's just a letter. From her high holiness."

Hermione pursed her lips but didn't rebuke Neville the way she wanted to. Augusta Longbottom deserved it. The boy's grandmother and guardian had let mad Uncle Algie chuck Neville _off a goddamn_ ** _balcony_** _when he was_ ** _six_** _years old._ As far as Hermione was concerned, he was entitled to some repressed rage.

"Bad news?"

"Maybe," Neville grumbled. "Ever since the incident at the Quidditch World Cup, Death Eater activity keeps popping up all over England."

Hermione blinked, her heartbeat quickening. "Come again?"

Neville passed her a stuffed manila envelope, filled with newspaper clippings and magazine articles.

"Merlin... Neville, what _is_ this stuff?"

Neville almost smiled then. "Dear old granny's been researching," he drawled.

Hermione looked up at him, and then waved a fistful of newspaper articles at him. "These are Muggle newspapers!"

"Well, sure. The Death Eaters are attacking Muggles, aren't they?"

"I don't know! How would I know? Why hasn't this made the Daily Prophet's front page yet?"

"Because," Neville said very slowly, as if he was speaking to someone particularly dim-witted, "they're attacking _Muggles_. No one in the wizarding world gives a flying fuck."

"Except for Augusta Longbottom, apparently," Hermione muttered, scanning the various, increasingly horrible headlines.

 _'Man Mauled to Death by Unknown Animal in Locked Room.'  
'Missing Woman Found, Murders 11 at Lancaster Grace Hospital, Commits Suicide.'  
'Inmates at Chesterfield Prison Riot - 4 Guards and 39 Prisoners Dead in Crossfire.'_

"What _is_ this?" Hermione asked him. "I mean, it's awful and all but... How's any of this Death Eater activity?"

"You have to know what to look for. Grandmother does. See, the first one's a werewolf. The second's probably an Imperius spell. The third... Merlin, the third is, someone dumped a vat of Pepper-Up Potion into the prison food supply."

"Pepper-Up?" Hermione whispered, horrified. "Pepper-Up made them _maul_ each other to death? _Like animals?!_ I take Pepper-Ups for colds!"

"Sure," Neville said. "You're a witch. Your body's fit to handle that stuff. All it does is warm you up and clear out the flu. With Muggles... Shit. It goes haywire. Screws with the limbic system, the adrenal glands, all their body chemistry. Pumps them up with pure, hundred-proof, unadulterated _rage_."

"And then?"

Neville shrugs. "In the end, a Muggle heart can't handle that. Hell, a wizard's heart couldn't handle that much adrenaline. You go into cardiac arrest. You die. And more often than not, you die bloody."

Hermione tried to let that sink in, and realized her metal hand was slowly shredding the paper apart. She dropped it all onto the table between them with a shaky flinch.

"How come your grandmother knows where to look?" Hermione finally asked.

"She reads."

Hermione grinned, and the expression felt macabre and awful and appropriate. Déjà vu was a mean old bitch. "How _much_ does she read?"

Neville rolled his eyes. "I dunno. A lot? She subscribes to about fifty newspapers, and only maybe six of them are of magical origin."

"Fifty," Hermione repeated.

"Oh yeah. Everything from Bloomberg BusinessWeek to Huffington Post. Reads 'em cover to cover every day, like clockwork."

"Madam Augusta Longbottom reads HuffPo."

Neville practically snorted. "'Mione, my grandmother has tea once every month with Rupert bloody Murdoch. The woman's an interfering busybody with no _goddamn_ sense of boundaries or personal space, and can we _stop_ talking about her?"

"Sure," Hermione allowed. "Hey, I've got news too."

"Better news than Death Eaters and the _end of the friggin' world?!"_

Hermione tsk'd softly, and Neville nearly growled. She couldn't help the weirdly hesitant smile that she smiled afterwards. My god, was she _blushing?_ She couldn't be blushing, for heavens' sake, she had a _reputation_ to maintain.

"Much better news," Hermione said, smiling her stupid fucking smile. She was definitely blushing. _God_. "Cedric Diggory wants me to train him up for the Tournament."

There was a long, silent pause, and then Neville whispered, "Holy shit."

"Yup."

"That is much better news."

"Glad I could help."

* * *

Hermione was just about to head back up to bed, an hour later, when a voice called her name. She turned around to see Colin's friend, Rick headed towards her. He was tall for a third-year, standing a few inches over her, and skinny as a beanpole, all arms and legs and awkwardness. There was something very endearing about it.

"Yes, um, Richard, isn't it?"

He blinked twice at that, as if he hadn't expected her to recognize him. "Yeah, sorry, I couldn't help but overhear—you're friends with Diggory?"

Hermione stiffened. "Yes?" she asked guardedly.

Rick shuffled, clearly uncomfortable. "Um. Look, this is kinda important. Does he—does he know about the first task?"

"Know about..." Hermione frowned. "Hang on," she said, lowering her voice, before she grabbed Rick's elbow and dragged him off to the alcove she and Neville had just vacated. The fires had all nearly died out in the common room - the only light in the alcove came from a narrow, mullioned window overlooking the grounds outside. "What's this about?"

"He doesn't know, then? What the champions are going to be facing off against in the First Task?"

Hermione shook her head. The wind howled past the window, making the glass rattle just enough to be eerie.

"Okay," Rick said. He inhaled deeply, and his shoulders set in a way that seemed to say he'd made a decision. "Do you know how to do a Notice-Me-Not charm?"

Hermione frowned harder. "Rick..."

"Look, I know you barely know me." There was a look of quiet desperation on him, that made him look older, more tired. It was the look she recognized from the mirror—the look that had haunted her eyes all of her first year, after the incident with the troll.

"I _know_ that, I _know_ I'm asking a lot," he said, pleading in his whole posture, "but... you need to come with me. You need to see this."

Hermione murmured the incantation to the Notice-Me-Not charm, and felt the veil slither over the both of them, shivering a little as it descended. "Okay," she said, to the amorphous, wallpaper-colored shape in front of her. "Where to?"

She could barely make out the finger that he pointed, at the window. Hermione followed the line he was pointing in, and then swallowed.

The Forbidden Forest.

Lovely.

* * *

"Dragons!"

Hermione nodded. It was the next morning, right before breakfast. Thank Merlin she had dragged Cedric into an empty classroom before breaking the news.

"Yes, but- _Dragons!"_

Hermione nodded again. This had been going on for a while.

Cedric paced down the length of the empty classroom once more, hands tugging wildly at his hair, before whirling on Hermione with a demented look on his face. " _Hermione!_ Dragons!"

Hermione sighed.

And nodded.

It was going to be a _long_ four days.

* * *

 **Four Days Later**

The day of the first task, Hermione woke to the distinct sensation of a horde of wildebeest charging in her belly. Lavender took one look at her at the breakfast table, and said very flatly, "I just got my hair done, Granger, so if you're going to hork up your bacon, kindly turn to Weasley."

"Oy!" Ron protested around a mouthful of sausage. "What did I ever do to you?"

Lavender rolled her eyes. "Nothing," she muttered darkly. "That's the _problem,_ you great git."

This seemed to go right over Ron's head, but he spent a whole minute staring at Lavender - which meant he spent a whole minute ignoring the veritable _mountain_ of hash browns on his plate, a feat in itself. The small, rational part of Hermione's brain noted that Lavender might actually have a chance with the boy, although _why_ anyone would want a chance with _Ronald Weasley..._

 _(To be quite frank, Hermione had overheard quite enough about how his scars were apparently quite 'sexy.' Wait till Lavender found out they were puncture wounds from Basilisk fangs - she'd probably rip her clothes off in a sexual frenzy, the nutty idiot.)_

The rest of Hermione's considerable brain, however, had curled up into the shape of a small, gibbering alley cat, mangy and emphysemic, fur riddled with lice and one leg chewed right off, hissing at any thought that dared get too close.

The day passed in strange, fitful lurches of time. Classes were to be held only to midday, to give the students time to reach the dragons' enclosure - though, of course, no student of Hogwarts knew what was waiting for them, besides Richard, Hermione and Cedric.

"You look like you're going to be ill," Neville said after Herbology, picking leaf bits from her hair while she sat on an overturned flowerpot in the vacated greenhouse, stared blankly into the distance. "Scared?"

Hermione pressed a fist to her mouth, and closed her eyes.

"He's going to be _fine,_ 'Mione."

"You don't know that!"

"Yes I do," he said, sounding unflappable.

He said nothing more, and Hermione barely stifled the sob that threatened to rise from her throat. If she started crying now, she would never stop.

"He _trusted_ me," she said, miserable and tense. "He trusted _me_ to help him survive this. What if he made a mistake, Nev?" Her voice rose, in pitch and in desperation. "What if- What if he should've chosen someone else? What if he gets hurt because he chose _me?_ What if he—oh, Merlin!"

"Well," Neville said shortly. "That's incredibly arrogant of you."

Hermione looked up at him, jaw dropping in shock.

"I- You- _Excuse me?!"_

"This is not your story, Hermione. This does not revolve around you." He gentled his tone. "Give a little credit where it's due. The Goblet of Fire isn't stupid, nor is Diggory. If the Goblet chose Diggory, it chose him for a reason. If Diggory chose you, he chose you for a reason."

Neville smiled, the weight of it warm like a hug, and gingerbread cookies on Christmas eve, and a lazy summer afternoon, all rolled into one. Hermione smiled back.

Hermione didn't point out that the Goblet _had_ been fooled once now, or that that Garmer fellow might just have manipulated Cedric into asking for Hermione's help, although _why_ he'd done it, she couldn't begin to guess…

"Ask him," Neville said, "if you don't believe me. Diggory will say the same thing. He chose you? Then he chose the best."

* * *

Unfortunately, if Hermione had wanted to talk to Cedric—and she _did_ —it had been made impossible. Cho had apparently decided to imitate a friggin' limpet today, plastering herself to Cedric's side between classes and during meals, glaring like the second coming of Gollum at anyone who dared get too close.

She saw her chance right before Cedric was about to enter the champions' tent, where Cho swept him into a bone-crushing hug, tugged him down to press a kiss to his brow like an aegis of benediction, and then hurried away, her dark hair streaming behind her like a length of black silk. Cedric watched her go for a moment, and Hermione practically sprinted forward—

-and then he entered the tent.

One of the two heavyset Ministry officials standing at the entrance flap shot his arm out, barring Hermione's way in.

"Champions and Tournament officials only, miss," he said.

"I have to go in!" she protested. "He's my friend!"

They were drawing strange looks from the passing crowd and Hermione suddenly realized how pathetic she sounded.

He arched an eyebrow, and met his colleague's eye over her head. "I'm sure he is, miss," the older wizard said dryly. "But since you aren't a champion, I'm afraid you cannot enter."

"You don't understand!" she begged, her ears burning hot, tears blurring her vision.

"Leave. Now. Don't force us to use our wands."

Cowed, Hermione shrank in herself, and slunk back into the crowd, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back like a thousand stinging hexes, blazing with thick, awful shame.

* * *

Once she was out of his sight, Hermione doubled back around the back of the tent, and began to loosen one of the minor tent pegs with a series of low-powered whispers of Diffindo, to get inside anyway.

She'd been sneaking around Hogwarts for three years, under the threat of Filch and Snape and McGonagall's Stare of Disappointment. Honestly, what the hell was one piddling Ministry official supposed to do? Scare _her_?

 _Not bloody_ _likely_.

* * *

"Pssst!" Hermione hissed, and Cedric cocked his head in such a Crookshanks-like motion that she felt a hysterical giggle bubble it's way up. Hermione slapped a hand over her mouth, and saw Cedric catch her eye and shuffle over to the edge of the tent, facing slightly away from her so it just looked like he was mumbling to himself.

"Hermione!" he whispered. "You came!"

"Are you feeling alright?" she asked worriedly, and Cedric sort of shrugged, as if to say, ' _Well it's either this, or run around screaming like a headless chicken, plus there's a very pretty girl in the tent_ — _and I may not be single but I'm not dead either_ — _so guess which one I'm choosing?'_

What? Cedric was an eloquent shrugger.

"It's a tricky bit of spell work," Hermione said urgently, "but I promise, you just need to concentrate and you'll be fine."

Cedric grinned, a little lopsided, eyes glittering with mirth. "Yeah. And then all I have to do is battle a dragon."

Outside the tent, the dragons roared, making the crowd burst into excited shrieks, and something wrenched in her, a little cry escaping her throat. And between one breath and the next, Hermione had shoved her way into the tent, and flung her arms around his neck, clutching him for all she was worth.

There was a brief, horrifying moment where Cedric went perfectly still - before she heard him swear softly, and wrap his arms around her waist, burying his face in her wayward curls and sucking in deep, shaky breaths.

And then the was a _CRACK!_ like lightning, and the both of them were jumping apart, the smell of smoking carbide filling up the air, and a viciously gleeful Rita Skeeter was sauntering into the champions' tent, her photographer clutching his camera, while she gushed loudly about _'young loooooove!'_

Hermione felt her heart drop right into her stomach.

Cho was going to _murder_ her.


	4. Chapter 4

After Cedric pulled off his task with simple, clean elegance, not a burn to be found, Hermione found she could breathe again. She also found that she couldn't stop grinning like an idiot, but really, that wasn't anybody's business but hers.

"Fire eagles!" Colin was practically screaming, hopping up and down in his seat as the judges gave Cedric his score. Dumbledore and Crouch both awarded tens. Maxine and Bagman stuck to nines. And Igor Karkaroff, true to form, gave him a _six._ "Eagles! Of _fire!"_ cried Colin, making Hermione smile wider still.

Even though she'd spent the last _ninety-six_ hours doing nothing but help Cedric prepare for the task, even Hermione had to admit that the final product had been pretty goddamn impressive. Most of the crowd hadn't noticed the first few spells Cedric had cast, while he was still standing at the gate - a weak _Frigidero_ to cool the air around him, and a series overpowered muffling charms to mask his footsteps, his scent, his presence. They only took note when he shot a small flock of fiery eagles into the morning sky, distracting the dragon - which immediately took wing, roaring at the eagles and straining at its chains - so when Cedric began to simply _walk_ to the nest, utterly unprotected, utterly calm, they'd all collectively lost their bloody _minds._ He was in and out in under three minutes.

Fleur came next, and tried an overpowered _Dormius_ against her Welsh Green that actually worked - which made Hermione wonder for a brief, terrifying moment about _exactly_ how powerful the Frenchwoman was, to cast a spell that worked on a _dragon_ \- right up until the beast woke up, halfway through her exit, and set her skirt on fire.

Krum, true to Durmstrang's reputation for destructiveness, decided to leverage the dragon's weak point - its eyes - and hexed the monster with a Conjunctivitis Curse. The thing _rampaged, exactly_ as Hermione had worried would happen, going berserk with fear and shock and pain, smashing its own eggs and- oh. It was _horrifying_.

In the end, it took seventeen dragonhandlers and Dumbledore's brief intervention to calm the animal down, and then Karkaroff _still_ gave his champion ten points out of ten, while Colin - and most of Hogwarts - screamed increasingly colorful invectives at the oily, smarmy Continental.

But Hermione couldn't join in, couldn't tear her eyes away from the rocky enclosure, where the remains of the eggs were scattered across the field, shards of crimson-gold eggshell and tiny, furled bodies with thin, translucent wings lying crushed and murdered under their own mother's weight.

The pitch was cleaned of the corpses eventually, and the next dragon was brought in.

The Hungarian Horntail.

For Harry Potter.

* * *

Hermione's first thought about this Potter fellow was-

"Hey, he's kinda short, isn't he?" Colin mused, sounding a little surprised.

Hermione turned to him. "Isn't this the _second_ time you're seeing him?"

Colin shrugged, his eyes glued on the Hungarian Horntail, monstrously spiked and armored and clawed, nature's finest machine of death. It had noticed the intruder on the pitch, and its dark, yellow eyes were slowly tracking Potter's movement. "Yeah, but that first time, I was scared out of my mind," Colin admitted without a trace of shame. "I wasn't really looking at his height."

"And now?"

"And now I've just seen three teenagers enter a pit with a bloody dragon and make it out alive," Colin replied, although Hermione could see he'd gone a little pale. "Helps put things in perspective."

Hermione looked down at her lap, where her fingers were all knotted together, white and bloodless, like a corpse. Her hands were shaking, she noted, very very distantly, as if she was looking at something through a window, through someone else's eyes.

"I mean," Colin was saying, a faint tremor to his voice, as Harry Potter advanced on the dragon, "how scary can one kid be, compared to four dragons?"

Her heart was pounding, erratic and hyperquick.

There was a sick, wild feeling in her chest, and Hermione realized she was _scared._

Scratch that.

She was _terrified._

And she had _no_ idea why.

 _Ringwraith,_ Hermione thought, bizarrely, the word sibilant with fear and rich, bubbling hatred. _Nazgul. Servitor of darkness, slave of Sauron's will._

Potter's wand arm was limp by his side, his cloak dark as pitch, the cowl throwing his face in deep shadow.

But Hermione was quite sure that it was more that just a trick of lighting - an Obfuscating charm, of some sort? Cast into the lining of the cloak? Maybe even second veil over his face, as a failsafe. It all depended on how highly Potter valued his anonymity.

And then the wind caught the bottom of his cloak, fluttering the hem for a second, and Hermione caught sight of his shoes - white trainers, and a rather distinctive logo down the side.

Her eyes widened, and beside her, she held Colin choke out an abrupt, hysterical laugh. They turned to each other at exactly the same time.

"Did you-" he gasped, just as she said, "Were those-"

Hermione nodded, to the unasked question, and Colin jaw dropped, eyes flickering between Harry and Hermione, shocked into silence.

The year after the incident with the troll, Hermione had done a lot of reading - even more than usual - under the covers and into the wee hours, staving off sleep and the nightmares that came with it. It had been a strange, terrifying time for her, after the calm, sluggish pace of her Muggle life - a life filled with three-headed monsters that guarded trapdoors, and mirrors that taunted her with impossible dreams, and trolls that invaded washrooms; Hermione had never seen so much **_blood_**. She hadn't known her body _held_ so much blood, not until it was splashed across the second floor girls' loo like a Jackson Pollock gone terribly wrong, until she'd seen her own leg, ripped and tossed like a ragdoll's, halfway across the room, the horror of trying to stand and toppling over, the certainty that, this was it, this was how she would _die_ -

Reading about trolls had made her twitchy and nauseous, so she read about the Cerberus instead. The three-headed dog of Hell. She read the old myths, the Greek legends, Plato and Hesiod and Euripides, devouring the stories about Hades, the Lord of the Underworld and the Master of Death.

They tried to paint him in bad light, those ancient writers, but Hermione had liked Hades anyway. Except for the bit with Persephone, he was perfectly sensible. Zeus and Poseidon seemed content to putter around, raping lovely young maidens left and right, ignoring their responsibilities and picking fights, generally making great arses of themselves.

Not Hades.

Hades did his job. He was a fair judge, and an exacting master, and if he was not a good man, precisely, then he was, at least, a rational one. Hermione found herself liking that a lot more.

And he had a dog.

Cerberus.

A great, slavering monster of a dog, perhaps, but a dog all the same. A good dog, for the job it had. Hermione could only imagine that guarding the gates to hell got messy, on account of how close she herself had been to entering them.

Cerberus, she read, came from the old word _kerberos, meaning 'spotted'._

 _Spotted._

Colin turned back to the pitch, to Harry Potter. There was an expression of fierce, savage hope writ large on Colin's face, and Hermione knew in an instant, that he wanted Potter to survive this. To _win._

"Accio!" they heard Potter call, his voice clear and loud, and in seconds, a plain, black broomstick slapped against his open palm and he was up, up, in the air, _taunting_ the Horntail, slipping past gouts of fire with only _inches_ to spare, a skill so refined it seemed utterly impossible.

 _Nazgul,_ she thought again, and now the word was filled with bemusement, made soft by a crooked smile.

Hades did his job, stayed faithful to his wife, and had a dog he called _Spot.  
_ And Harry Potter, the boy even Hell spat back out, limned in darkness, returned from the almost dead, was short, skinny and apparently wore _Reeboks_ while battling dragons.

It was hard to be scared of him after that.

* * *

The school practically descended on top of the tent, once Potter had been given his scores (nines from Dumbledore and Crouch, an eight from Maxine, a _ten_ from Bagman, bizarrely enough, and Karkaroff spared a five with an expression like a toothache, putting him three points _behind_ Cedric) and quite literally vanished into thin air.

To their left, in the far distance, a tiny figure hoppped off their broomstick, and slung it over their shoulder. Hermione could just barely make out the thatch of rumpled blonde hair, the broad shoulders, the long, hurried stride. Colin jumped up and down, waving his arms wildly in the air, hollering, "Riiiiiiick! RIIIIICK! OVER HERE!" while Hermione shrank away and pretended she didn't know them.

Rick caught up, red-cheeked and looking a little worse for wear, but his eyes were bright as he babbled about the view, and how _cool_ everything looked from up there, and all the photos he'd gotten. Hermione slipped away, with an awkward smile and a hasty excuse, but the two third-years had their heads together, seriously discussing when they could start developing the photos, - _' _immediately_ ' - _who they were going to sell them to _\- ' _everyone_ ' - _and how they were going to advertise _\- ' _really loud_ ' - _and they barely noticed her go.

By the time Hermione managed to catch up to Cedric, they were already in the Great Hall, but there were still crowds swarming around him, and she didn't look too odd when she walked up to offer her congratulations.

But Cho, sitting next to Cedric, noticed her first.

"Hermione," she saw Cho murmur, although her voice was swallowed up in the din.

There was a blazing look in her eyes, and if Hermione hadn't been a Gryffindor, she would've taken a step back. As it was, she stood her ground, gulping, as the older girl walked up to her.

"Did you know?" Cho asked, and silence rippled outward from where the two of them stood, as if everyone was straining to hear their conversation.

"What?" Hermione asked blankly.

"About the dragons," Cho repeated. "Did you know?"

Hermione looked to Cedric, and he inclined his head in a single, sharp nod.

 _Were they both insane?_ Hermione wanted to _scream._ They wanted her to _cop_ to it? In front of an _audience_?!

"No," Hermione replied, careful to keep her voice flat. Hollow. "Of course not. That would be cheating."

And Cho _tackled_ her-

 _-in a hug._

Huh?

Dumbfounded, Hermione slowly forced herself to pat a clearly overwhelmed Cho on the back. Cho pulled back, still fierce and beautiful, and took both of Hermione's hands in her own. "Thank you," she whispered, with a vehemence that stunned Hermione. "Thank you for helping him. I don't know what I would've done if anything-" She choked, and blinked twice, before she soldiered on, "if anything happened to-"

" _Nothing_ is going to happen to him," Hermione interrupted. "Nothing."

Cho nodded, eyes fiery and dark with determination, and Hermione clasped her hands together. It felt, in that moment, like a bloodpact had been sealed between the two of them. Nothing would happen to Cedric. Not on their watch.

* * *

Hermione Granger woke up to the Daily Prophet hitting her in the face.

It was the morning after the First Task, an impossibly bright morning in the middle of November, and someone tossed the newspaper at her. It smacked her in the face, and within seconds, Hermione had snapped her wand into her right hand, a wicked, silver dagger in her left, slipping off the bed in a single, fluid movement, and standing alert at the side. Her knees were slightly bent, her feet apart and firmly placed, pushing her center of gravity low and flexible.

Her wandtip glowed a dangerous, throbbing red, the wood creaking under the pressure of her inhumanly strong hand.

"What the _motherfuck,_ " someone swore, and it seemed to wipe the heat from Hermione's eyes. She sighed.

"Parvati," she acknowledged, her voice hoarse and papery. Merlin, her head was going to _kill_ her. "Don't startle me like that again."

"What the hell _was_ that?!" Parvati whisper-screamed, backing away from Hermione like she was a feral hippogryff. "Is that a _knife?_ Do you sleep with a _knife under your _pillow?!"__

"Mm-hm," she mumbled, stowing the knife in her bedside table, and twisting her unruly hair up into a bun.

" _Why?!_ "

"The Sirius Black incident. He got all the way from Azkaban to Gryffindor Tower. I-" She saw the Daily Prophet lying sadly at her feet. "What's this, then?"

"No!" Parvati cried, suddenly panicked, "Don't- " but Hermione had already picked up the newspaper. "Oh crap. Look, I'm gonna- I'm gonna- Um. Bye!"

With that, Parvati was scuttling out of the dorms like her robe was on fire, but Hermione hardly noticed her leave. Her eyes moved over the headline blankly, over and over and over again, uncomprehending.

There were photos on the front page of the tabloid - a panel of three. The one to the left had Cedric chatting with Fleur. He said something and she laughed, tossing back her blindingly perfect mane of platinum hair, and Cedric grinned, seeming rather pleased with himself. The one in the middle featured Cedric on the edge of the dragon enclosure, a golden egg tucked under his arm, the Swedish Short Snout roaring in the background. Cho ran up to him, and he swept her off her feet, kissing her like his life depended on it.

And the one to the right was of Hermione and Cedric, in the tent.

He grinned at her. She jumped into his arms. He turned his face into her neck. Ran his hands down her spine, stopping just short of too friendly. The picture turned oddly grey for a second, and then looped over.

He smiles. She hugs. They stay that way too long.

Again.  
Again.

 _'CEDRIC DIGGORY:,' the headline read, ' _CHAMPION, OR CHEATER?'__

The byline belonged to Rita Skeeter.

Hermione's knees wobbled for a second, before she sat down hard on the edge of her bed. This could not end well.


End file.
